


Where Everybody Knows Your Name

by DeadGhosts



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Animal Death, Background Relationships, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon Relationships, Claustrophobia, Dark Comedy, Drama, F/M, Family Dynamics, Friendship, Gen, Hans (Disney) Redemption, I can't write romance so I try to keep it faaaar in the background where I don't have to touch it, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Murder, OR IS IT, Platonic Relationships, Sibling Rivalry, Srsly the Kristanna is just background stuff, Temporary Character Death, The Author Regrets Everything, Violence, tfw you take a nice disney movie and mess it up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadGhosts/pseuds/DeadGhosts
Summary: His choice was simple: lose his identity or lose his life. He just wasn't aware that there would be repercussions; or, at least, not the kind he envisioned. After the events of Frozen, the wayward Prince Hans is left to waste away by his loving family. Unfortunately, his escape from death will be the world's undoing, and only he can prevent its demise- even if said world has forgotten about his very existence.





	1. All Those Nights Without Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Claustrophobic Situation, Mentions of Death

His fingers scratched against the decaying wood of the hatch, split nails barely managing to graze the rotting splinters that circled his head. Thin streaks of moonlight wept through the iron bars that separated him from civilization, glimmering and sinking away into the murky abyss of nightfall like ink against silk.

His face gleamed with sweat as he pushed against the wall, arms screaming in pain as he struggled to bring them back to his sides. They were currently stretched far above his head, pressed hard against the stone walls of his prison. He had barely managed to pry them upwards in the first place; the cell was just large enough for him to squeeze inside, forget turning or sitting. It had taken an excruciating amount of time and pain to dig them out from their position at his waist. And now his arms were stuck, and probably would remain so until a guard came by.

Or until he died. Whichever came first.

His oubliette* was smaller than the others; or at least he thought so. He had never ventured far into the dungeons when he was younger, and the few times he had attempted such a feat he had been caught by some hapless servant- or worse- his parents. The servants simply chided him, saying that he'd be next in line for a cell if he continued his little escapades (and oh, how he hated the irony).

(He didn't like to remember the one time his father caught him.)

But judging from the schematics that he'd reviewed all those (weeks? months? years?) ago, when he was still considered royalty, this was at the very least an older cell. The newer ones were larger in width, but quite a bit taller, and the entire hatch was made of metal, not just the grill itself. If he had been able to grab a hold of one of the bars, maybe he could have pulled the entire trapdoor down- except it would have landed on his head and probably busted his skull open. Although, at this point in time, it probably wouldn't have been that much of a tragedy.

The light shifted through the bars, angling itself ever so slightly as the moon changed its position in the night sky. If he stood on the very edge of his tiptoes he could see the frame of the window that the stars peered through, pressed against the remnants of that gaudy wallpaper his mother had insisted on plastering in every room.

His mother.

Sometimes, just as he finally managed to fall asleep, he'd think he'd hear her voice. That eerie little whisper that clung in the air, swirling around in the dust above his tiny hole in the ground.

But that was quite impossible.

She was dead, after all.

He vaguely noticed that it was hot, dreadfully hot and humid, the air stale with gross rot and dust. His tongue was dry and his lips were parched and pale as he breathed in the putrid scent of blood. He shifted, his bare feet crunching against the bones of the cell's last occupant(s).

His loving family hadn't bothered to remove any corpses. According to the guards, his father thought he might appreciate the company; he was always kind like that.

He hated them at first; dead bodies, however old, are not something you want bare skin to be in contact with. And boy, did those sharp bits hurt.

But after settling in, and after slowly coming to the realization that he'd most likely never escape, he began to go through his own little stages of grief. Like avoidance.

And the skeletons were deemed an appropriate prop for his escapist fantasies.

In his lonely confinement wherein he was accompanied only by resentment, he would fill the silence in his mind with delusions of grandeur. In particular, he would pretend that the scattered bones were that of any one of his older brother's. He made sure to put pressure on what he thought could have been an arm or a leg. They'd broken his enough times, he figured, and he might as well return the favor, even if just in spirit.

Sometimes, he'd go as far as to think of them as the remains of Queen Elsa whom, in his far-fetched dreams, he'd assassinated before conquering her kingdom. But when he thought of that, his brain reminded him in agonizing detail that his entire predicament was based purely on his own miserable failure. And he didn't like to remember that.

So nowadays, well after the anger left and all that remained was mind-numbing boredom and misery, he considered them company. They weren't his sadistic brothers, nor a winter witch, nor the ghost of his mother; just rotting corpses, left for dead and forgotten in the silence just as he was.

And good company they were. They never argued, nor screamed when he stepped on them, nor called him rude names or beat him when they were upset. And the rats would rather gnaw on the measly, easy to tear bits of flesh that clung to the rotted cadavers than his raw, dehydrated skin.

Yes, the rats. He named them, actually.

The littlest one was called Anna. This one was his favorite, mostly because it was just an annoyance. It squeaked far too much and pooped everywhere, and occasionally nibbled on a toe or two but otherwise kept to itself.

Then there was Weaselton, the rat who enjoyed perching on the man's feet for the sole reason of crapping in his festering wounds. He often found himself praying that it would get a disease or something and just die already.

And finally there was Elsa, who was quite simply bipolar. Generally, the rat would sit in its little burrow where the stones didn't quite meet, doing absolutely nothing, until suddenly it would decide to attack him with claws and teeth galore. There was virtually no way for him to fight back, as it was already hard enough for him to move, much less stomp and kick. And when it had gotten its fair share of blood the rat would retreat back into its crevice and leave him be until the next assault.

Stupid rat.

Maybe it was just hungry (although maliciously so). He knew he was. The guards occasionally came by and dropped some food off- literally. Due to the fact he was trapped in a claustrophobe's worst nightmare, he had to catch whatever they threw down to eat in his mouth. If he missed, then the rats got his meal, as he most certainly could not bend down to retrieve it. He learned that lesson fairly quickly.

In terms of water the dungeon was always moist, so he usually just licked up the droplets that cascaded down the walls of his cell while simultaneously ignoring the squirming bugs that laid in the cracks. He wasn't sure why it was so wet, except that the royalty obviously didn't care to keep the dungeon in proper working condition. Not that they really needed to. It was filled with criminals that nobody cared about.

Like him.

Reflecting on it, he found his situation almost humorous. His family, as predicted, hadn't even bothered to make any sort of official announcement on his punishment; they simply swept him under the rug (quite literally), and kept him barely alive because. . . actually he didn't know why.

He'd never know why, because they never spoke to him, not even when he came back from his little trip to Arendelle. As soon as he had gotten off the boat he was escorted to a prison cell, which he had remained in for about a week while the royals discussed his sentence. There was no trial. Eventually the guards came and briefly relayed his "official" punishment before wrestling him into the oubliette, where he had been, for. . .

However long it had been.

It was both unsurprising and utterly shocking, like a monster in a child's closet; the child always knew, always insisted that their boogeyman was real, yet when it finally crawled out of the darkness, the realization that it truly existed was astonishing. He knew his family didn't care, didn't notice him; but to realize how much they really didn't care was a shock. It shouldn't have been, and yet for whatever reason he thought that maybe, somewhere deep inside they cared.

What a joke that was.

And now here he was, damned to an eternity of darkness and rats and skeletons, all because he tried to impress the family who, he now realized, probably still wouldn't have cared even if he had managed to conquer Arendelle.

Ah, irony.

He still hated it.

And as he gave into exhaustion with his arms still fixed over his head and the rats rustling in the bones beneath his feet, his last thought of the night echoed throughout his skull.

A hundred dead had spent their last night here.

He would be joining them soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *An "Oubliette" (literally "Forgotten Chamber") was a French invention dating back to the 14th century. They were prison cells that were usually used for people that the captor needed or wanted to be forgotten about. It was basically a tiny hole that just barely fit a person; most of the time the imprisoned couldn't move at all. The prisoner was dropped inside through a trapdoor in the ceiling and then, as suggested, essentially forgotten about. Sometimes they were kept alive if they were deemed important, (e.g, a political prisoner). Most of the time they were just left there and died of starvation or disease or whatever else. As I'm sure you can tell it doubled as a form of psychological torture; being left alone in a tiny chamber filled with rats and maggots and usually other bodies was not much fun.
> 
> Although there is some controversy as to whether they really existed intentionally. Some think it was more of an afterthought; as in, royals dropped people into ice storage units because they ran out of room in the dungeons. In this story we're pretending that the oubliette was intentional, because who knows.


	2. Longing to Hear a Kind Hello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, I've rewritten this chapter enough times to publish an entire novel of rewrites. They're all just as trippy, if not more so, than this one is. And they're way more. . . ick. And you're all tired of ick by now, right? Right?
> 
> TW: Drowning, Death, Squeamish Moments, Blood, DRAMA GALORE, uh. . . Darkness. We're almost done, I swear.

Darkness.

This wasn't an unusual event, per say. He was perpetually draped in darkness, the kind that behaved more so like a thin blanket than it did anything else- it provided a layer of false security, wrapping itself around his depreciated form yet doing nothing to cure the cold or hide him from lurking monsters. The trapdoor that perched precariously above his head, now splintered and bloody from his prying, grimy fingernails, allowed only the thinnest slivers of light to touch his hardened gaze. On nights when the moon was shrouded by clouds or absent from peering eyes, he could hardly see the ever-present stone in front of his face.

This particular darkness, however, the one that he now saw (or did not see), was that of an acquired taste. Pure, unadulterated black, bitter and silent and colder than ice. It was heavy, like fog, and stretched up to the ceiling above his prison cell and seemingly lurked the hallways beyond. Not a flicker of a lamp nor the twinkling of a star broke the void. It was as though the shadows had swallowed the night sky, moon and all, and had left nothing behind to remember.

Perhaps he had awoken to it. He faintly remembered having grown tired, arms sore and screaming as they hovered above his head. He slumped, his bony spine scratching against rock as he shut his eyes for the briefest of moments.

He was there.

And then he was not.

And now, standing there in the gloom, he felt strangely numb. He couldn't feel his aching stomach, or his pounding headache, or his outstretched arms. It was as if he were disembodied, floating in the abysmal darkness that currently encompassed his prison. He tried to move, to stretch, to yell for help, but found that neither limbs nor lungs responded to his command.

An odd thought occurred to him.

Was he even in his prison anymore?

"Oh, my dear. . ."

Her voice was closer than usual.

Instinctively, he glanced up, not expecting to see a figure looming in the darkness above him. How he could see it in such pure black, he'd never know. It gazed at him with hollow eyes, grinning a toothless smile. His breath would have hitched, if he'd had actually been breathing.

The silhouette shifted like a broken automaton, cocking its head to an impossible angle. An audible crack echoed through the black, and he could see the ragged necklace of rope dangling from its beaten body, swinging like a pendulum in the night.

"Hans, dear, won't you say hello to your mother?"

And suddenly he fell.

The bones beneath his tattered feet gave way as the earth opened up and swallowed his body whole. He gasped as he felt a splash of cold winding around his face, slithering into his lips and effectively smothering his soundless screams. The ink engulfed his frail frame, lapping against his infected wounds and swirling into his bloodshot eyes.

Oddly, in this senseless moment, a memory of his time at sea crept up into his thoughts. A sudden gust of wind had stirred the ship he was commanding and knocked him and an unfortunate crew member overboard into the ocean. He remembered watching as the boy- no older than sixteen- screamed, flailing as he was overcome by the treacherous waves of the Atlantic and pulled below the surface. He remembered diving down, deep into the water, pushing desperately against the heavy current as he reached out for the sailor. The boy was kicking, mouth opened in a silent scream as he sunk further and further into the depths. His eyes remained perpetually open even as his movements slowed.

Eventually he stilled.

And then the child was gone.

And now, as he floated into the abyss, curls of liquid shadow slipping down his throat and into his frozen lungs, he suddenly realized that this was probably what the boy felt like as he drowned, cold and alone, struggling against the merciless sea.

Forgotten

Abandoned.

Alone.

His resolve hardened in that moment, and the will to fight, to live, arose from his spirit. He tried in vain to kick the shadowy ribbons away, to move against the dark, yet he remained motionless. He tried to swim upwards, begging his legs to kick and his arms to paddle, but nothing happened. He was paralyzed as black tendrils wrapped around his wrists and dragged him further down into the icy depths. He was helpless, dying.

Dead.

He found that his eyes were glued open as, in one of the most cliché moments of his being, he was forced to watch his life pass by-

His brothers, laughing and playing with wooden swords, whipping him across the back with their fake-weapons. . .

Dragging his bloody and beaten body up the stairs. . .

Reading a book next to his mother, underneath the old oak tree. . .

His father's fist colliding with his mother's porcelain skin. . .

The hatch on the hanging platform dropping. . .

Anna's face as her hope died away. . .

Elsa's broken form at his feet. . .

And finally, the guards dropping him into the oubliette.

They never did say goodbye.

In that moment, Prince-Admiral Hans Westergaard realized that he was at his end. The real end, not the end when his mother died or when his family dropped him down a hole- the kind when his heart stopped beating and his father threw another unfortunate prisoner on top of his corpse to rot away, until he was nothing but measly scraps for the rats and bits of bone dust to waste away into the ground.

As he watched the visions fade away, and he felt the cold churning in his numb flesh, he saw something.

A soft light peered through the gloom, dancing haphazardly against the surface of the water. It twisted, blinking in and out like a dying fire.

"I can help you." It whispered, it's voice fading with every syllable.

His eyes widened, and he tried to call out, to reach out to the surface, but his descent continued.

The light grew smaller and smaller, fading into a spark. His hope simmered, and he knew he wasn't going to make it back, when the voice spoke again.

"All I need is your name."

The binding around his neck loosened imperceptibly, and he found himself nodding eagerly (when had his muscles started working again?).

The light chuckled, and it grew. . .

And grew. . .

And he was gone.

Again.

A soft breeze shifted against his cheek, prompting grass blades to gently caress his face. The sun's rays radiated warmth upon his gaunt face, casting a red, soothing glow behind his eyelids. He breathed in the summer air and sighed contently. If this was death, then he could live with that.

That is, until a rock connected with his cheek.

"Get up!"

Hans eyes shot open and he gasped, scrambling to his feet. He whipped around, clutching his chest to still his racing heart, ready to take on whoever had dared attack him- until something clicked in his brain.

He was alive- and not in his prison.

He was in a small clearing in what appeared to be a forest. A ring of evergreens stood guard around the area, stern and tall against the brilliant blue sky. Songbirds fluttered from branch to branch, chirping and whistling with glee as the fanned their wings in the summer heat. The smell of ripe cloudberries assaulted his nose, and their white flowers barely poked out between an array of purple and blue petals swarming with colorful butterflies and hungry bees. He could see the tops of mountains peaking up beyond the forest, brushing against the stark white clouds drifting through the sky. The landscape was wholly untouched by man's deadly hand; not a building nor path could be seen for miles.

But he found that the unsettling part was not the fact that he was suddenly out of his prison, or that his hazy memory reminded him that he had just had what he could only attribute to a near-death experience; no, it was the fact that the meadow was covered in dozens of mottled stones. They were all approximately the same size and the same oval shape, colored a uniform blueish-grey. No rock overlapped another; they all had their little resting place, nuzzled against patches of grass and worn dirt. This was. . . odd. There was no way nature could have naturally positioned the boulders in such a precise manner, and despite the fact that the rocks had obviously just recently been placed, there were no human footprints in the mud save for his own. He sucked on his lip, and the skin stretched out and aggravated the wound on his cheek. He paused, glaring at the stones before shaking his head.

There was no time to think on such things when his attacker still lurked nearby.

He lifted his fingers to his injury, lightly grazing the swollen and bruised skin. There was no blood, as if the weapon used wasn't sharpened to cut at all. A blunt rock.

His head shot up to glare at the large stones, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

He crept between the rocks, finding himself careful not to step on any (though he wasn't sure why). He crouched, darting through the tall grass like a deranged pheasant, peeking warily around each stone in search for the assailant.

His fuzzy senses, still recovering from their brief departure, didn't acknowledge the presence of a living creature behind him. Something hard tapped against his calf, and he whirled around, stretching out a fist to hit the attacker. His arm blew through thin air, and the force of it whirled him around like a tornado. He fell, knocking his chin against a rock that he could have sworn was not there two seconds ago, and sent his teeth through his bottom lip.

He sputtered indignantly, a line of red curling down his bearded chin.

"Well," a deep, worn voice said, sounding amused, "That was not very bright, now was it?"

The rock that he was resting on suddenly moved upwards, sending him sprawling onto the ground face-up.

Above him loomed a stone with a bulbous nose and elephant-like ears. It gazed at him with wrinkled, tired eyes, its headdress blowing in the breeze.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The ground shook.

Suddenly, the clearing shifted into a realm of chaos as all of the rocks unfurled from their hiding positions, rolling out into humanoid figures that each donned mossy clothing and a necklace of colorful beads. They began chattering amongst one another, voices mixing into a chorus of curiosity and anger.

He blinked again.

"Now, now." The elderly rock said, placating the crowd with a single gesture of its stubby arm, "Let us all calm down. He doesn't know what he did- this time, that is."

All of the rocks turned and glared at him with that sentence, their eyes burning into his very soul- or lack thereof.

He gulped, and clambered backwards, his spine slamming into the trunk of a pine tree.

Great.

He was cornered by a clan of angry rocks.

"Um. . ." he scratched the hairs on the back of his neck, the sea of angry boulders silent as they waited for what he presumed was an explanation. He sucked on his bloody lip, and for once in his life, found he had nothing to say. What did they want from him? What was even happening?

"Well?" a feminine voice piped up, "What do you have to say for yourself? Do you realize what you've done?" The voices stirred up again to a heated level, churning furiously and clambering for his attention as he sat in the dirt, a trail of blood leaking from his torn lip.

"Not really, no." he finally said, shrugging. The crowd became quiet, deathly so. "Although it looks like I'm either sleeping, drugged, or dead." He paused. "I hope it's the first, honestly."

"You were dead", the shaman- he assumed it was a shaman, anyway- said, "She brought you back, and in the process ruined everything."

He frowned, remembering the darkness and his mother and the grabbing arms and the drowning sensation. . .

"You were being dragged down to Hell."

Ouch.

"Where you belong!" The womanly rock said, raising a fist into the air. The mob resumed their chanting, which Hans finally recognized as being something akin to "Destroy him! Destroy him!", and the old stone sighed.

"Bulda, enough! We need him to cooperate if we're going to fix this mess!"

Hans watched as the throng surged and spat like an angry, rocky wave, wishing for nothing more than to beat him into the ground. And for what?

He wasn't quite sure of.

"Alright." he said, gathering his strength and heaving himself off the ground. The stones paused, and he suddenly realized that they were rather short. Maybe that's why they were so angry.

He straightened his back, trying to ignore the harsh crack that resounded from his bones and the winces from the rocks, and regarded the talking boulders with his classic "Admiral" look, since his "Prince" look never really worked on anybody what with him being in no position of real authority.

"Explain."

They sat around a burning fire, although he couldn't for the life of him understand why- they were rocks, and it was summer. Even in the evening it was only slightly chilly, and the hum of insects continued to buzz past his ears in the dimming sky. Perhaps it was just for the effect. The trolls- he learned they were trolls when he called them stone-men and that Bulda woman threw another rock at him- all looked grim, the fire casting dark shadows down their prominent features and hiding their scowls from his eyes.

"You made a deal with a very powerful witch." Grandpabbie (also courtesy of Bulda, nobody liked him calling the guy Old Rocky or whatever) began, his voice grave, "Her name I cannot speak, for it contains too much evil for my lips to-"

"Get on with it." Hans said stiffly.

A rock flew through the air and connected with the side of his head, and Hans barely contained a scream as his vision shorted out briefly.

Grandpabbie sighed, sending an exasperated grimace towards his daughter as he waited for the forsaken prince to regain his bearings. "Yes, well, she has the ability to connect to the spirit world. She was able to speak to your soul as you died, and you made a deal with her; she would bring you back from the dead and release you from your prison, if you gave up your existence."

Hans frowned and raised his shaking hands to the fire. His thin, pale skin reflected shades of red in the light, and he could see his veins pronounced and pulsating with life. He gently rotated his wrist, watching the shadows deepen and dance across his knuckles as the light magnified every minor imperfection on his hands. He gently tapped a fingernail, feeling the broken nail bed beneath, and skimmed the rough callouses on his palms. He brought his fingers up to his mouth, rubbing the dense scar tissue already forming on his lip. The trolls watched in silence.

"I think you're confused", he mused, a smirk playing on his lips, "I do believe I'm still here." He raised a hand, showing the trolls, that yes, he was in fact real.

Grandpabbie frowned and grabbed onto Bulda's wrist before she could pick up another rock. "You, as a person, still exist, but only as that. You were never born. There was never a thirteenth prince of the Southern Isles. There was never an Admiral Hans Westergaard. You were never engaged to Anna, and you never caused-"

"I did not!"

"- the Eternal Winter. You were never imprisoned. You never lived, and you never died. You have no identity- you gave that up when you signed her contract." Grandpabbie scooped up a pile of ash from the fire pit, and Hans could only watch as it exploded from the troll's palms and flew up into the night sky, forming silhouettes of his past memories. He watched as a ship was molded from the streaks of powder, swirling into a portrait of Queen Elsa surrounded by her palace of ice, and finally, a single image of him in his prison cell, slumped against the stone wall as he took his last breath.

Hans breathed deeply, casting his eyes to the dancing flames.

"Then how am I still here?"

Grandpabbie reached into an alcove next to the pit and withdrew a walking stick, balancing on it precariously as he waddled up to the former prince.

"Basically, she created a different timeline- and in effect, destroyed the one you came from." He said as he plopped down next to Hans, gently patting the man's knee like a loving grandfather. Hans froze like a deer caught in headlights, unsure of how to respond to the sudden, tender physical contact. He made a move to pull away, until he spotted Bulda's rigid glare from across the fire and settled into his discomfort. Better to feel awkward and uneasy than awkward and in pain.

"How do you know who I am, then?"

"We trolls are magical beings, and are not affected like mortal creatures are." Grandpabbie said, poking Hans on the bicep with the point of his walking stick. The prince's eye twitched. "Things didn't change much for us, however, we could feel what happened. We knew the change."

Hans grimaced and shifted from his kneeling position, opting to carefully sit on the ground with crossed legs. He sat, examining the mud stains on his knees as he searched for his once witty tongue.

"Why does all of this matter to you, then, if you aren't affected? I thought magical beings didn't get involved with humans." This garnered a chuckle from the crowd, and he felt a spark of irritation light up in the back of his brain. Lovely, they thought him an idiot. Yet, the look on Grandpabbie's face never shifted, and remained its solemn, comforting gaze. As comforting as a rock can be, anyway.

"Because you were never at Queen Elsa's coronation, she never revealed her powers. Because she never revealed her powers, she is trying to run a kingdom while hiding from herself- the pressure, and her powers, will only grow. Her ice will become stronger and stronger, until she can contain it no longer and freeze the Earth and everything in it."

Hans blinked.

Oh.

"It can't be that bad!" The ex-prince hissed, throwing his hands up in the air, "Her powers were pretty bad before, but nothing world-destroying!"

Grandpabbie sighed. "Not before, but it's been awhile. If you thought she was under pressure before, then you should see her now. No Anna to save her now, nobody to help her be a Queen, nobody to support her as she tries desperately to run a kingdom and hide her powers. She's alone. And you, of all people, should know what stress and loneliness will do to a person."

Hans' jaw dropped open at the accusation, but he knew it was true. He had nothing to defend himself.

"Yes, you screwed up. Majorly. And the witch knew this would happen. She got you to sign the contract- legally binding, even in the magical realm. We can't undo what she's done, time is locked in place. By doing this, you doomed the entire world. And the people must turn to her to save it- no one else will be powerful enough to stop Queen Elsa's accidental onslaught. And when she does that. . ." A silhouette of a woman surrounded by fire appeared, her face contorted into a sinister smile, "she will be the savior of this world. The people will love her for destroying the so-called Ice Queen. She will be the most powerful with Elsa out of her way. Elsa's presence and management of her powers after the Eternal Winter prevented her from attacking before; Elsa was too capable, and her people were too loyal. Now? The kingdom is sliding. People don't trust her. Anna doesn't trust her, Elsa doesn't even trust herself."

"Because of this", he continued, ignoring Hans contorting facial expression, "Queen Elsa won't be able to control her powers in her current state, and with no one to help her, the witch will turn things upon her. The witch has her opening. She can take over what she believes to be rightfully hers. . . Earth."

The ashes fell from the sky, dusting Han's hair with gritty specks of black. A sudden gust of wind blew the fire out, and the trolls were left in the darkness, their only light being the quarter moon barely glowing in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you tired of cliche plots yet?
> 
> Then why are you reading this story? Get out, man, find yourself someone unlike me! An original storyteller!
> 
> Go, before it's too late!


	3. The Check is in the Mail

The night waned on, its dark shadows obscuring the vivid colors that the valley possessed. A gentle breeze coiled through the trees, ducking and diving through the tangled branches and brushing against their shuddering leaves. Lightning bugs meandered through the valley, their smoldering lights passively flashing in the dark like a broken metronome. The moon regarded the gathering below with its gentle gaze, the otherworldly beams casting an ethereal glow onto the troll's oddly scaly skin.

Hans licked his parched lips and raised an unsteady hand to his hair, running his fingers through the greasy, unwashed tresses to rid them of the remaining ash. It had been a long time since he had last bathed, he thought absently, fixing his gaze upon the night sky. In the valley, where not a single lamp was lit, the distant galaxies twisted in and out amongst the stars, stretches of brilliant color swimming through a sea of black.

"Hans?"

His eyes flickered down to the trolls, who sat expectantly, twitching nervously as they awaited his answer. The children huddled into their parent's arms, hugging their stony elbows and snuggling into their sides with wide eyes. He frowned at them.

Hans glanced back up to the heavens and leaned back on his arms, his fingers curling into dry grass and clumps of dirt, brushing hurried ants away from his hands. He breathed a deep sigh, relishing the cool air, and drew his lips into a bitter smirk.

"I wish I had thought of that", he said casually, tilting his head onto his shoulder. A shooting star passed across the night sky, dazzling brilliantly like a freshly-cut diamond before it vanished into the abyss. The aurora borealis danced behind the mountains, whips of forest green and icy blue stretching out to touch the stars.

"Perhaps I should take notes from this oh-so-wicked witch. She seems to have rather exceptional ideas; don't you think?"

Grandpabbie's face fell, his mouth twisting into a disheartened frown. He shook his head sadly, gazing out to his clan with tired, apologetic eyes. The trolls simultaneously gawked, and a flurry of voices shot out into the dark, their hushed whispers and angry curses mixing into a jumbled mix of meaningless words.

Bulda scowled deeply, disregarding her husband's attempts to snatch up her wrist as she rose from her position across the fire pit. Her hands clenched into tight fists as she marched over to the disgraced prince, a look of a woman scorned set deeply into her stony face. She grabbed the man's chin, disregarding his surprised yelp as she tugged it down from its skyward gaze and stabbed a rock hard finger into his chest.

"You, sir, are despicable." She said, poking her finger deeper into his ribs with every syllable. They were level now, her standing height equal to his sitting height, their noses almost touching as she leaned in to glare at him.

He blinked, and for a second the rock woman could have sworn he was taken aback by the words, but as soon as the expression came to pass it was gone. The prince grinned, the sadistic humor of the situation not quite touching his eyes. "That, I realize. Which is why I must ask why you all want my help."

"Don't you understand?" Bulda hissed, shaking with the force of an earthquake, visible cracks appearing in her skin, "You're the only one who can! You are the only mortal being who is aware of the change in this life. And none of us fae-folk can do a thing against that witch; we trolls are already stretching it thin getting involved with mortal magic affairs. But to directly interfere with such a huge event? We can't. It's the rules of magic, and we must obey. You're the one who messed things up; you have to fix them."

Hans watched her steam, gently reaching out and pushing her finger from his ribs. He rubbed his chest with his knuckles, his gaze hard and blank against the pale moonlight.

"We're relying on you to fix things. You're the only who can make a change." Bulda said, her voice growing soft. The trolls nodded simultaneously, words of sugar-coated encouragement peaking up from a few less subtle individuals.

Hans glanced over Bulda's shoulder to look at them, their faces growing brighter with hope. The children clapped their tiny palms together, the sound akin to china plates rubbing against one another. He nodded, rubbing his beard with a scholarly look, regarding the trolls with an air of inquiry.

"Ah. I see what you're trying to do", he said, digging his heels into the ground and lifting himself onto his feet. Bulda took a step backwards, giving him room to stand, and he raised his chin into the air with a look of pure defiance. "You think you can play me like all your little subjects," he gestured to the clan, "feeding into my desire for self-worth. Well, expect no altruism from me." He shook his head, fixing his stare onto the ground as he felt a wave of something akin to guilt. He could see the children tearing up, their lips pulled into a grimace as they held back their sobs.

"No good deeds go unpunished, and I'm done dealing out mine. All I want is to start over."

Grandpabbie rose unsteadily to his feet, wobbling on his walking stick as he barreled forward. "You can", he said gently, "But if you allow this to happen- then you will never be able to start over. You think she'll keep the one person standing in her way alive?"

Something in his minuscule, black heart squirmed, and Hans wheeled on the old troll, eyebrows furrowed into a knot. "You said it yourself; I signed her contract. My life for my identity, she can't mess with that."

"At that particular moment, with that particular situation, no." he said, "But you are no longer bound to that life or that identity. You are, legally, no longer the you who died, the you who signed her contract. The you that was you is gone, and she may do whatever she pleases now."

Hans frowned. Laws? Morals? Magic was weird.

"So, it's a lose-lose situation. I die by her hand fighting, or die by her hand living."

"Not all hope is lost." Grandpabbie said, his soft voice peaking as he reached out to grab Hans' limp wrist. The rough, rocky scales rubbed on his bone, and he fought the urge to pull away. "You can still win this. If you choose not to fight, then she will devour your soul whole. But if you can be sneaky and destroy her plan- and we all know you're good at that- you can live in peace, with no strings attached."

Hans paused, shaking his head. "I never asked for this."

"Nobody did. Life is like that, unfortunately." Grandpabbie sighed, rubbing Han's hand in a comforting gesture. "But you can live, Prince Hans. You can live a peaceful, quiet life, one of great joy and worth. You don't need a kingdom for that." His eyes flickered mischievously over to the trolls, and he leaned in, his mouth crinkling with humor, "And between you and me," he whispered, "it's quite the pain to run a group of people. You go grey early." He chuckled, patting Hans on the back with his cane.

Hans attempted to grin, but it looked like he was holding in a bout of diarrhea instead. He heard Bulda let out an unconcealed snort behind him, and he briefly considered throwing something at her before he decided that in order to survive this ordeal he probably should avoid angering the trolls. Instead, he straightened up with a horrible crack of his knees like the proud prince he once was, and regarded the trolls with a look of regality.

"Alright. What do I need to do?"

The morning awoke with a bright and cheery grin, the sun's rays stretching over the mountains and casting warmth upon the valley. Hans rubbed the corner of his sleep-deprived eyes with a knuckle, using the palm of his other hand to force back a yawn. He knelt down next to a small pond, splashing the cool water onto his face and rubbing it vigorously into his skin.

"So," Bulda said cheerfully (far too cheerfully for how early it was), stuffing a bushel of potatoes into a ragged white sack, "you're going to need to stage something to get the Queen to, well, loosen up." She chuckled, holding out her hand in anticipation, and frowned.

"Are you boys still working over there?"

"We're trying, Miss!" one of the men yelled, wincing as the troll standing on top of his head adjusted his footing. Four of the tallest trolls were stacked on top of each other like building blocks in an attempt to reach a branch of low-hanging apples. The highest troll swiped at the leaves like an enraged cat, his stubby fingers barely grazing the bough. The men groaned.

"Well, hurry it up! He doesn't have that much time; I'd give it two, maybe three months at the most, and it'll take about a week just to get over to Arendelle."

Hans paused as he sipped water from his cupped hands. His eye twitched erratically, and he sputtered, choking on the liquid.

"Two months? Her powers shouldn't grow that much in two months! Are you crazy?"

"Oh honey," Bulda said in a condescending tone, "her powers will always grow, especially as she gets older. The difference is controlling them. You won't believe what stress and a bit of pushing from a witch can do to you. Don't think she won't interfere. If she can find a way to push Queen Elsa over the edge, she will do it and she will do it A.S.A.P."

"And besides," she continued, "it's been months since her coronation. You didn't travel back in time; the same time that passed in your cell has passed here. It has been about, ooh, roughly," she started counting on her fingers, an eggplant-purple tongue peeking out of her lips as she deciphered the basic math, "a year or two? Not sure, time doesn't quite pass the same way here as it does everywhere else. Y'know, magic." She waved her hands in the air, all the while ignoring Hans' jaw's slow descent to the ground.

"You boys about done? We ain't got all day! C'mon, we're losing daylight! Use those muscles, Cliff!"

The troll at the top of the stack paused, his eyes darting back and forth nervously as he set his face into a determined scowl. He crouched down, and digging his toes into the lower troll's head ("Ow, ow, ow") propelled himself upwards. His hands whipped out and he grasped onto the bough, the sudden weight snapping the branch off at the connection point- bringing troll, apples, and tree limb tumbling through the air. The other men, whom had fallen down with the sudden force of his jump, screamed and scrambled away from the oncoming avalanche. The troll and the tree branch crashed onto the ground into an unearthly heap, the apples rolling across the ground in all directions. Bulda sighed.

"That'll do, I suppose. Go see if we have any coin lying around to give to him; he won't be able to survive off of these pathetic rations."

"A year? Or two? I was in there for that long?" He had estimated around four months, what with the days and nights being difficult to count, but an entire year?

Or two?

"Yeah, congratulations on that by the way. Not sure how you survived that long; most don't last half of what you did." She smiled at him, not seeming to understand his current state of hysterics, "Good thing you're so good at living! Might make this next job easier, huh? Like my little Kristoff." She heaved a sigh, grabbing a bruised apple next to her feet and stuffing it into the sack. She rummaged through the items and suddenly paused, her head shooting up as she clapped her hands together. "Kristoff! Yes, you'll need to meet with Kristoff, he'll help you out for sure."

Hans frowned. "Kristoff?" The name sounded familiar. Maybe.

"My baby! Well, my adopted baby. And not an actual baby anymore, unfortunately. He's a real cutie, has a thing for reindeer which is kinda creepy, but he's as sweet and as strong as they get!" she twiddled her thumbs, cocking her head to the side with a thoughtful expression. "He'll probably be at one of the ice fields. I'll grab my map; he marks it down." She discarded the bag and hurried over to one of the troll burrows, disappearing down it in a matter of moments.

Hans watched her leave, and slowly started picking up the apples, his thoughts racing as he ignored the groans of the injured troll.

Two years? He had lost up to two entire year of his life in that little hole in the ground. The guards must have been feeding him better than he thought. Did that mean his family did care?

Well, he'd never know now.

After all, there were only twelve princes of the Southern Isles now.

Although, perhaps they had a different child, one that they actually cared about, who didn't mess things up and sneak down into dungeons and kill their mothers. A legitimate, well-behaved thirteenth child, not the dishonorable son that he was. Perhaps a daughter? They had always wanted a princess. . .

Hans' pity-party was rudely interrupted when a solid hand snatched up his ankle, tugging on it weakly. He gasped, nearly dropping the pile of apples that had accumulated in his arms as he kicked at the perpetrator. Sharp, unmanly squeals emitted from both prince and culprit as his foot connected with rock. He looked down to see the brave troll that had taken the downfall sprawled pathetically on the ground, face-down and holding a single red apple in his hand up to the man. Hans glanced at it nervously, then back at the half-dead troll before slowly reaching out, hastily grabbing it out of the troll's palm and pulling away from it before it decided to go Grudge on him and eat his arm or something. The troll groaned, its arm dropping back onto the ground as it became unnervingly still.

Hans grimaced and slowly edged away, fearing that the seemingly dead troll would pop up as a rotting, brain-hungry rock-zombie and devour him for breakfast as revenge for his untimely death. So he resumed his chores, keeping an eye on the still body as he dropped more apples into his sack, feeling extremely uncomfortable by the entire situation. Maybe Granpabbie could voodoo it alive or something. If it was dead, that is.

Bulda's head popped up from her hole, the tuft of grass that sat atop her head whipping in the breeze about her comically gigantic ears. She brandished a worn map that was about half her size, a triumphant grin upon her face as she walked over to the ex-prince.

"That's where he is.", she said, pointing to a charcoal stain on the frayed paper, "You'll have to find him; he can get you to Arendelle fast, and if he knows Grandpabbie and I sent you he'll be more than willing to help- hopefully. Now, there are some things you'll need to-"she paused, her head whipping over to the motionless troll. Her face fell, and Hans felt his heart drop down into his stomach.

He really had killed the troll.

Bulda squinted into the harsh sunlight and marched over to the body, pausing at its side. She studied it with a look of wisdom as Hans waited patiently for her to either a. kill him for committing homicide (again) or b. chant Latin phrases until the troll rose from its grave and killed him for committing homicide (again).

Bulda nodded to herself, and her stone foot connected roughly with the troll's side. It barked, slapping away her kicking feet as it attempted to crawl away.

"Get up, Cairn! You're so dramatic sometimes!"

The troll- now dubbed Cairn- muffled something unintelligible and rolled onto his backside, wincing in the blinding morning sun.

"C'mon, that was hard."

"Everything is hard for you! Grow up!" she kicked some dirt into his face and strode back towards a shocked Hans, who found himself sighing in relief. She rolled her eyes.

"He's so whiny." She grumbled. "Now, what were we talking about again? Kristoff! Now, he's a bit of a grump, and reeeeally likes reindeer and ice. Also, he may spontaneously burst into song. Nobody is sure why, except that we do it too, so I guess we rubbed off on him?"

Actually, now that Bulda had mentioned it, everybody in Arendelle seemed to spontaneously burst into song. Perhaps it was a disease? The weather? Heck, even he did it that one time with Anna. That place really was cursed.

"So, like I said, loves reindeer a bit too much. He's had Sven since he was just a little kid- I'm honestly surprised he's still alive. The reindeer, not Kristoff. Although, Kristoff does have a tendency to get into trouble. . ." she paused thoughtfully, before shaking her head. "Nah, all will work out for good! Just tell him Grandpabbie and Bulda sent 'ya, okay? Hans? Have you been listening to me?"

Hans drooping head shot up and he nodded. "Yeah! Singing! Elderly reindeer! Gotcha!"

Bulda narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion, but nodded. "Okay. So, I packed you enough food to last for a few days if you ration it out. There's some water skins, a blanket just in case it gets cold, and the map. Shoes," she pulled a pair of old hiking boots out from behind her, "since you don't have any. You might have to stuff them with leaves or something to make them fit. There's a pair of gloves in there as well. Unfortunately, the only human clothes besides these items are Kristoff's, and they won't fit you whatsoever; plus, he might be a bit creeped out if you showed up in his clothing, so you'll just have to go in what you have." She gestured to the ragged prison clothing and winced. "Be sure to change as soon as possible, though. And shave. You look like a crazy hobo that escaped from prison or something." She paused. "Actually, that's fairly accurate. No offense."

"Taken. Continue?"

She huffed, and fished out some coins from the bottom of the sack. "Cliff managed to find some money that we had piling up somewhere. Maybe it's Kristoff's, not sure, but he'll understand. Fate of the world and all that. Be sure to spend it wisely; food, clothing, the whole bit. Oh! And an axe." She tugged the axe out of the bag, tearing a small hole in the fabric. "Whoops. I'll fix that. Anyway, use this for self-defense and, y'know, survival. You know how to wield an axe?"

"Of course!" he huffed, crossing his arms petulantly.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a manly masculine man. I just wasn't sure if the royalty was into life skills." She scoffed, rolling her eyes. She glanced over to Cairn, who was still lying on the ground, picking halfheartedly at a patch of dandelions.

"Cairn! Grab my thread!"

Cairn groaned, shielding his eyes from the sun. Bulda scowled.

"Get up before I come over there and make you."

Cairn slowly stood up, grumbling as he waddled away to one of the alcoves.

"Is he okay?" Hans asked, wincing as the troll stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face.

"Cairn? Oh yeah, we trolls don't die off easy. We're basically rock, pretty much indestructible! He's just whiny. Teenagers." She shook her head, scoffing. "When I was his age, I had to go collect ingredients for Grandpabbie's potions. Trekked all up those mountains", she pointed to the mountain peaks, hidden by a stretch of clouds, "and all through the forests, by the lakes, basically went everywhere. Climbed up trees, dug holes, the whole bit. This generation though, I'll tell ya! So lazy! Can't even get 'em to catch a dragonfly once in a while! Yeesh", she shook her head, watching as Cairn dug around the holes for the needle and thread.

Finally, he pulled it out triumphantly, brandishing it like he had discovered the mighty Excalibur itself and set off at a snail's pace back towards the duo.

"Hurry up!"

"I think I broke my legs."

"You don't have any bones to break! Move faster, I'm not coming over to you!"

Cairn quickened his pace, and just before he reached them Bulda snatched the needle out of his clenched fist. He grumbled something under his breath as she grinned, patting his head like a pathetic dog.

"See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" she grabbed the torn bag and quickly stitched it up, before stuffing the needle and thread inside the bag. "Just in case." She said, "Now, come along. The clan wanted to say goodbye."

The trolls stood around him, and the former prince couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed as they cheered enthusiastically, shaking his hands with stony fists and giving him excited, bone-crushing hugs. Shouts filled the valley, scaring off birds in the trees above as they danced and sang with joy. Hans couldn't help but give a slight smile at their contagious optimism. He wished he felt the same about this whole adventure.

Silence descended as Grandpabbie waddled up, smiling softly. He clutched something in his fist, and gestured for the man to come closer.

"You'll do just fine", he said, nodding to himself, "find Kristoff at the ice house and set off for Arendelle. I'm sure you can flesh out the details of your plan on the way there. Make good time, now; the witch is probably pushing for an accident already, and I fear that you are short on time."

He gestured for Hans to open his hand, and he dropped a pendant in his palm. Hans blinked, staring at it.

"A necklace?"

"It'll come in handy. Just trust me, my boy; all will work out as it should." He leaned forward and pulled Hans into a warm hug.

Hans nodded stiffly and began to walk away as soon as Grandpabbie was finished, slinging the bag over his shoulder with the map in one hand and the axe in another. As he left, he heard Bulda's voice call out to him in the distance:

"You're always welcome here, if you find you have no place to go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the OC. He was mostly here for comic relief and filler. You probably won't see him again, at least, not for anything important.
> 
> Speaking of which, sorry about the filler, I figured I couldn't really just skip to him going on his epic adventure without some stuff in between. But don't worry, we're going to start the sloooooooooooow journey next chapter.  
> This story is going to be long, if you haven't figured that out yet.


	4. Wouldn't You Like to Get Away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Animal violence and death, classism, minor coarse language, thievery and general violence. Whee.

Hans groaned as he meandered through the woods, kicking rocks away from his feet as he glared into the thick fog that had settled over the trees. He was only four days into his travels, and he already found himself wearing down; although his physical condition had improved from, well, near-death, he was still weak from months of immobilization. He could feel sleep deprivation sneaking up on him, ready to pounce at any moment and rob him of precious time. His eyes wandered to the grey clouds thundering above him ominously, flashes of lightning in the distance blinding his sensitive eyes that had become accustomed to the darkness of his cell. Wincing, he tugged his shoddy, ripped jacket around his shoulders and pulled the map out of the troll's potato sack, studying it with a grimace.

He wasn't lost. Not at all. He had been reading maps since he was a small child, not to mention his little bout in the Navy! Unfortunately, the trolls, or Kristina(?), or whoever made this map really didn't know how to make a map. And, that left him a little. . . confused. Just a tiny bit.

The "map" consisted of inconsistent charcoal lines that, upon examination, appeared to be messily scribbled-out paths. Drawings of what he presumed to be landmarks covered the paper in some attempt to be usable, except said landmarks were smeared beyond recognition. The writing at the right-hand corner of the diagram was completely illegible- whether it had been written in another language or by a man with stubs for hands (which probably wasn't too far from the truth), Hans has no idea.

It didn't help that he had no clue which way he was going. The sun had been hidden from view for days, clouds blanketing its usually blinding light and throwing off his internal clock. That, and the fact that he had been trapped inside a hole in the ground for years also really cut off his natural affinity for directions.

He sighed and spun on his heels as he surveyed the forest. Miles of huge pine trees towered over him, stretching into the booming clouds that hovered above his head. They grew close together, thin and spindly like giant spiders, with their roots twisting through the dirt and slithering across the ground to create a thick, coiled web. Overgrown brush, riddled with pine needles and green cones, covered the ground and made the area hard to traverse. Man-kind hadn't swept a destructive eye over this land: a peaceful place for wildlife and trolls, perhaps, but an annoyance for travelers such as himself.

Hans crumbled the useless map up and tossed it back in his bag, slinging it over his shoulders with a sigh. He brushed a lock of dirty red hair away from his eyes, grumbling about the need of a haircut- they'd be calling him Rapunzel soon enough. Maybe if he was lucky Anna would mistake him for her absent cousin and help him out with the whole evil witch affair. It wasn't too far from the kidnapped princess's story, if he remembered correctly.

As he removed the debris from his eye, a flash of green in his peripheral vision caused him to turn. To his left, a thick patch of moss clung to the trunk of a pine tree, its tiny leaves clinging to the bark like a child would its mother. A dim light seemed to blaze forth in his mind as a hypothesis formed, information pulled from a childhood long-gone from history. With a soft grin, Hans paced around to the other side of the tree, which was absent of any growth.

His brothers had been overall useless for most things concerning him- they were providers of abuse and neglect, no more and no less. Yet, he vaguely recalled an older brother- he was unsure of which, as his face was oddly fuzzy in his memory- showing him a patch of moss growing on one of the trees in the forest. He could only assume that this took place after the first time that the twins had dumped him off in the middle of the woods and left him for dead. He had been lost, wandering aimlessly for over a day before he had managed to stumble back into the nearest village, tired and thirsty. He was around four at the time.

Afterwards, he remembered that his brother had explained that for the moss to grow, the sun would have to hit it directly, and therefore only the southern side of the trees would have moss. If you were to follow the growth, you'd be going south, and the other directions could be determined based on that. He had assumed that he was in the northern mountains, considering the lack of people and the overabundance of trolls and wildlife- and therefore, if he were to follow the moss, he'd eventually hit civilization!

In the very back of his mind, he couldn't help but snicker- here he was, owing success to his brothers, those of which no longer knew him as such- not that they ever truly cared to do so.

He picked up the pace, ducking under low-hanging branches and hopping over rotting tree-stumps that lay dead in the mucky dirt. He could only assume that it had rained before he had even begun his trip- after all, the dirt didn't turn wet on its own- and he could only imagine how much worse the ground would get if he stopped long enough for the turning weather to catch up with him. Even with several days of dry weather, his worn boots slid down his ankles with every step and threatened to fall off his feet and be lost to the mud forever.

He wondered, absently, if this Kester guy was a freaking behemoth. Man's shoe size was double his own.

Within minutes, a sudden shift in the air and a hush of the birds above signaled the gale's immediate arrival. The wind began to blow, the air swirling felled leaves on the ground and shaking the tree branches. The storm was getting closer now, the light mist from earlier having subsided for sparse, small teardrops that began to occasionally pelt his head. A chunk of hail landed no more than a meter away from him as the thunder above rumbled threateningly.

Hans grimaced, the plans that would actually contribute to any progress in his journey abandoned as abruptly as the storm arrived. Instead, he spun on his heels as he surveyed the forest, searching for any glimpse of shelter for the time being. The barren woods only allotted the thin, spindly trees as protection. . . which, with a good wind and a burst of lightning, could very well cause his second death. He groaned in exasperation, mumbling curses to himself as he tumbled through the woods in search of a smaller, thicker tree to hide under. He ran straight ahead, stumbling awkwardly over the ground in his over-sized boots in an attempt to dodge the increasing number of hail. In fact, he was so focused on his plight that he didn't even bother to look where he was going until his eyes caught a peculiar looking log outstretched in front of him, positioned perfectly so that any unsuspecting idiot would fall into (or over) its trap. His feet were flying across the ground, far too quickly for him to stop, and he let out a sharp gasp as he suddenly realized what was about to happen.

He tripped. He felt the shock ride up through his shoulders as his outstretched palms sunk into the wet ground, his face mere inches from a mouthful of dirt. His hands sunk further into the mud as he scrambled to get up, brown sludge sloshing up against his fingers and leaving a modest layer of dirt behind. He groaned and pushed upwards, his legs stretching out behind the lumber that he tripped on as his knees awkwardly pressed onto its. . . oddly squishy side. Said log let out a ragged breath of pain as it felt Han's sharp bones digging into its wounds.

Hans screeched and fell forward, his face slamming into the mud puddle that he had so valiantly attempted to avoid earlier. Sputtering, he spat out a mouth full of mucky water as he scrambled forward, his leg scraping across the side of the dying creature that lay behind him.

A young doe laid in the mud, rain pelting her side as she gasped for air. A deep gash tore up her abdomen and through her neck, exposing the rib cage beneath. Rivets of blood cascaded down her ticked pelt, mixing with the rain to create a thin, pink river that congregated beneath her body. A wide, brown eye framed by dark lashes settled upon Hans, watching him silently as he fumbled in the mud.

Hans gulped, staggering to his feet. The animal made no attempt to get up, the only sign of life being her pounding chest and her wide, teary eyes. Carefully, he tiptoed around her, studying her condition with a thoughtful look. She tossed halfheartedly in the dirt, all of her energy leaking out through her skin by the second, the hail pelting her hide and leaving near-dents behind. She let out a weak groan, her head sinking further into the mud as the rain began to pool around her body. He glanced around; no sign of a predator or hunter, and no shelter to be seen either. Something had to have injured the deer, and it could be anywhere- and with his luck, it'd get him next. Plus, with the storm arriving, his time was shortened to basically nothing. He didn't have time to mess with her!

He shifted as his stomach growled, reminding him of his days of almost complete starvation.

He had a few pieces of fruit in his bag, but nothing substantial. The trolls had evidently thought that he would reach some form of civilization by now, and would be able to purchase a better supply of food. However, between the lost days trying to follow their crappy map and the weather fluctuations, he had already spent a portion of his food reserve. And if the weather continued the way it was currently, he'd be walking for even longer than expected. A while without a proper meal. He loathed the very thought of escaping the prison, only to find himself with a rumbling stomach again.

Besides, venison was good.

Hans grabbed his bag from around his shoulders and sifted through the contents. He bit out a low "ouch" as his thumb grazed across the needle and thread that Bulda had insisted he carry with him. At the bottom of the pouch, he could see the axe, its unkempt blade bleak and sad in the shade of the rain clouds.

He braced himself against the wet soil and swung the axe down onto the doe's neck. She screeched, her legs kicking out as she scrambled for footing as the dull blade coupled with his weak, shaking muscles barely made an indentation in the deer's thick hide. He gathered himself and heaved another blow, and another, ignoring her cries as the adrenaline rush granted him more force behind each swing. The doe's wailing faded into oblivion as her neck gave way, the axe finally piercing through her pulsating veins and spilling the blood that lay beneath. She choked, unable to catch her breath as her throat collapsed, feeling the cold hand of death smothering her screams.

Hans knew that feeling all too well.

After what felt like an eternity, but in all reality was only a few seconds, the deer's chest slowed to a halt. Her wide, beautiful brown eyes settled on him for the last time, blinking furiously with pain and fear. A final, sputtering breath left her broken body, her soul with it.

He stared at the deer, the rain splattering against his hair and soaking the jacket that hung limply from his shoulders. He looked down at his muddied pants and back to the body, and with a sigh, swung the axe back and began to hack through the flesh. She'd make a good meal, later.

Hans hissed, throwing the useless sticks to the ground and stomping his pile of tinder into the mud. Both were thoroughly soaked, rendering him without any source of warmth to combat the cold rains that poured down around him. He was currently huddled underneath a squat pine tree, the rainwater rolling off the thick needles and protecting him from at least some of the storm. That being said, he was still cold and unhappy and soaking wet, and he was four days into his journey and there was still no sign of civilization or Christian Troll-man. Therefore, this blessing was ignored and instead he sulked in a puddle of mud with a pout on his face.

Grumbling, he fixed the ratty blanket around his shoulders and stared off into the growing darkness. It was difficult to see past the sheet of rain that ran off the pine branches, and the cloudy sky blanketed the sun's dying light, leaving behind black curtains that sheltered him from the world beyond.

Hans huddled further into the blanket, attempting to get into a more comfortable position that didn't require drowning in a mud puddle or getting poked in the eye by pine needles.

He glanced down at the chunks of meat that he had obtained from the doe. He had attempted to properly skin and quarter her, but lack of proper tools and time left him with shoddy cuts of flesh that had ribbons of hide still clinging to it. Without a fire, there was really no point in taking the time out of his day to cut up the deer anyway. In the summer morning, it would become rancid within hours, and he'd be left without much for food. . . again.

(In some ways, this reminded him of his imprisonment. He was cold, tired, and hungry, and trapped in a small space surrounded by darkness and there was nothing that he could do about it.)

The rumbling of his empty stomach snapped him out of his contemplation. Grimacing, he rummaged through the now dirty potato sack lying next to him and felt a large apple inside. He had been limiting himself to only a couple per day as his rations were sparse- and with his malnutrition, the small portions didn't bother him as much as it could have if he were still a healthy young man. He traced his fingers around the apple, feeling for any indication of worm holes or rotting. Interestingly, he couldn't find a single imperfection on the peel- it was perfectly round and smooth, with no indentations or bruising of any sort.

A flash of lightning illuminated the fruit's exterior, revealing a bright, juicy red skin, the color of the doe's spilt arterial blood. He blinked, and the color, the blood was gone- the light had faded as fast as it had appeared.

He shook the thoughts away and bit into the apple, the sweet juice flooding his mouth. It was fresh and ripe, much better than some of the apples that you could pick up in the market. The Isles' apples were never very good- they didn't stay on the trees long enough to truly ripen, and they were always more acidic than he would have preferred. However, it was what he was used to, and was what he ate when available.

A tinge of copper touched his tongue, and he withdrew the fruit from his mouth. His tongue searched the edges of his teeth, the taste becoming more evident along his gums. Frowning, he turned the perfect apple in his grimy, calloused hand. A thought entered his mind.

Why hadn't the witch's magic fully healed him?

It was hours later, long after the storm had passed and the wind died down to a gentle breeze, that Hans awoke to darkness and whispers.

His eyes snapped open, or at least he thought they did. They felt open, but it was dark- very dark, hole-in-the-ground dark. His breath hitched, his hands clenching into tight, sweaty fists- if he could see, he was sure his knuckles would have been white. Was he still in his cell? Had it been a dream? The witch, the trolls, the grasping hands and deer?

He jumped to his feet, smacking his head on a tree branch.

Nope, not a dream.

The whispers, however, remained, soft voices dancing in the still night.

Hans peeked out from under his cover. The storm had passed, leaving a path of destruction in its wake- he could see several downed trees, water standing in low areas of the forest and miscellaneous flora littering the ground. He moved a foot and heard a soft splash- he had been sleeping in a puddle, evidently. He groaned and tugged at his wet pants, the cold seeping into his skin as the material clung to his legs. He gathered up his belongings, stuffing a few pieces of surprisingly chilled meat inside of his sack and ducking out of the cover of the pine tree.

It took several moments for his vision to adjust to the bright light of the moon. He was still half-asleep despite being startled earlier, and he still wasn't used to so much light after years in darkness. He blinked rapidly, trying to scatter the hovering shadows in his eyes. . . and froze when they finally focused.

Dark silhouettes moved in the distance, their bodies framed my moonlight. No torch accompanied them, and their voices were hushed to almost nothingness. A group of travelers, it seemed, were headed his way.

He wondered, briefly, if he should attempt to contact them. They were traveling in the middle of the night after a bad thunderstorm without anything to guide them but the full moon, and they were whispering and practically crawling on the ground. At the same time, Hans was doing the same thing, so he figured he ought not to judge too harshly.

Pursing his lips, the ex-prince waved. "Hey!"

The silhouettes froze in their tracks as though they had run into a brick wall, each one pausing in their position. Their whispers died down into nothingness, as though a switch had flicked their voices off. Hans scoffed; obviously he had already noticed them, it wasn't as if he wouldn't see them if they didn't move! Suddenly, the person in front- the leader, he assumed- turned on their heels towards Hans. One by one, the others did the same, their bodies moving mechanically at the beck of their leader. Hans shifted backwards, feeling the air go still with tension. Perhaps curiosity would kill the cat. . .

He began to back up as the group drifted closer, his back hitting the tree that he had been hiding in earlier. He grunted, realizing his mistake as the moonlight revealed a hodgepodge of characters: five men, all of varying shapes and sizes but with similar levels of shadiness, surrounded him. Their grimy linen castoffs hung off their shoulders like capes, and their stringy beards hoarded dirt; those with smooth faces boasted thin, wrinkled skin and dark bags under their eyes.

Actually, Hans fit right in at the moment.

The young man grinned charmingly (as charmingly as he could be, looking like an ex-convict. . . wait.) "Hello, fellows! I apologize for calling you over, I thought you were my traveling group!" He chuckled, boasting a strong grin, although his stomach was turning on the inside. He absently fiddled with his ragged jacket as the men glanced to one another, their eyes holding a devious glint within.

The man in the front, whom had led the group towards Hans, loomed forward, baring a set of broken teeth with a grim sneer. He studied the ex-prince in the light of the moon, bearing witness to his red-flecked skin and saggy cheeks, his hair a field of rotting wheat and bunches of greasy cowlicks. Hans grimaced when he stepped close enough for him to smell his breath; it was a lovely combination of garlic and necrotic gums, enough to make most grown men vomit.

Absently, he wondered if his smelled about the same- minus the garlic, that is.

"Ay', what're you doin' out here at this time of night?" he hissed, his rancid saliva hitting Hans in the eye. Hans flinched at the contact, his face scrunching up in disgust. Yuck. He didn't need an infection right now. "Don'tcha know the wolves roam 'ere, and there ain't enough food for all o' 'em to be happy and fed?"

Hans smiled sweetly, wiping the spittle out of his now red eye and folding his hands behind his back. "I'm on my way to. . . oh, I don't even know the name of it. . ." he gave a half-hearted shrug, his eyes darting between the gang. "I was traveling with my men when we got separated during that awful storm. We were headed towards the ice houses north of the capital. Perhaps you could point the way? Trust me, I'm in quite the hurry and I'll be gone in an instant." Yes, instant indeed.

The leader seemed to consider the offer, his brows raising and pinching as though he were in deep concentration. Watching the thick hair bounce and move, Hans thought that they might have actually been caterpillars resting on his flat forehead.

The man- Bushy Brow, he decided- suddenly leaned around Hans, seemingly staring at the ground behind him.

"What'cha got there?"

Hans eyes went wide, all casual confidence leaving his body in one swift breath. He had forgotten his bag, which was still gripped within his white-knuckled fists behind his back. He grinned, giving a wary chuckle as he pushed the bag further behind himself. "Nothing of any interest, certainly. I am homeless."

"Hm." Bushy Brow hummed, leaning further to the side as he inspected the potato sack. Hans retaliated, turning his body so that the bag remained out of sight.

"Ay!" An odd, spindly creature chirped eagerly, clasping its bony, claw-like fingers together as it stooped forward. Hans hadn't noticed its presence before, but was now reconsidering the phrase "ignorance is bliss". It might have been a man once, but it was reduced to skeletal proportions, with purplish skin and a visible lack of body hair. It wore a pair of baggy, ripped slacks and nothing more, constricted pupils burning against its grey eyes. Hans shivered at the sight of it.

The little. . . goblin. . . smirked, licking its thin purple lips with unidentified hunger. "Sa ya mut carreh evr'ytin wit you den, eh?"

It took Hans a moment to decipher the message. The creature spoke with a flat accent, void of enunciation and proper grammar-which, frankly, Hans found to be quite fitting for its physical appearance.

Its deduction skills, however, were a bit better than he originally would have estimated.

"Perhaps, but rest assured it's nothing of interest." Hans shifted his leg to the side, covering the arm that reached into the bag and found its grip upon the bloodied axe handle that lay within. He didn't like making messes; he was a prince, after all, and messes required cleaning. When it came between him and survival, however, he figured that blood could wash out of clothing with a few drops of cold water.

"Ya speak quite prim un' proper fer a beggar."

The group nodded, muttered agreements resounding throughout them. Hans frowned. Either this creature was far more intelligent than it appeared, or he was losing his touch after years of dormancy. He couldn't decide which he preferred.

Bushy Brow considered this briefly and waved a large, hairy mitt. With the motion, his gang stepped forward, their bodies completely blocking any entrance of escape.

"We can tell ya the way to your ice house", Bushy Brow sneered, "if you give us your bag."

He reached out, clasping Hans' shoulder and jerking him away from the tree. Hans stumbled, swinging his arm forward to brace himself against Bushy Brow.

Unfortunately, it was the same arm that was holding the axe.

Hans and the thieves gaped as they stared at the axe sticking out of Bushy Brow's arm, blood gushing around the wound and dripping onto the soft dirt. Bushy Brow blinked rapidly, his eyes fixated on the splinters of bone jutting around the blade, bits of muscle drooping like dead flower petals across his arm.

Hans met his stunned eyes, cloudy and tearful, and gave a weak smile. "Sorry?"

He swung the bag out, knocking Bushy Brow onto the ground. The goblin was the first to react, its spindly legs bracing against the ground as it let out an inhuman snarl, lunging towards the ex-prince. Hans spun, the bag slamming into its thin abdomen and sending it flying into another of the thieves. The two remaining men were standing too far apart to do anything as Hans dived towards the opening, jumping over the downed bodies and sprinting across the mud.

He dashed through the woods, his shoes rattling on his ankles as he stumbled over the brush lying in his way. Suddenly, a sharp scream filled the forest not too far behind him, accompanied by unintelligible shouting. He could hear Bushy Brow's brusque commands in the distance, caught between mad rage and pain, steaming in the summer air. He sprinted faster through the wood at the roar of leather boots slapping in the thick mud, the minion's angry yells echoing around him. He ignored them, hopping across rocks and ducking under branches, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream with a renewed vigor that he hadn't felt since he was dying.

The air turned cold against the bare spots on his face, sweat pouring down his forehead and blanketing his skin in a glossy veil. He couldn't see more than a meter in front of himself, his only light source being the full moon glimmering with wicked amusement in the night sky.

He winded through the trees, taking odd turns in hopes of losing his pursuers. The forest was far too still, and he realized that he was probably heading away from his original destination, and with it civilization. If he continued in a random direction, he'd be even more lost than he already was.

He put on the brakes, coming to a stop where the trees thinned to almost nothingness. The voices were drawing closer by the second as he frantically considered his options, his head whipping to the sides. Keep running and possibly lose them, and be lost himself, or risk them catching up trying to find his destination. The answer should have been obvious, but he really couldn't afford to waste any more time. He was already way behind, and soon he- and the rest of the world, but mostly he- would be facing the pits of the underworld reborn on Earth.

He hissed, kicking a flower aside and stomping it angrily into the mud. Those stupid trolls made it sound so easy! "Just go back and make all the things the way they're supposed to be!", they said, "True love blah blah frozen heart blah blah witch blah blah blah" they pretty much said. Yeah, right! The very Earth was against him, trying to stave off his efforts to save it!

He grimaced, his eyes darting back and forth across the empty meadow. It appeared to stretch for some distance, leaving him out in the open and susceptible to attack. He started to turn around when he heard another yell, one that was far closer than it had been before. His instincts took over and he darted towards the meadow, his feet trampling the grass underneath. In the distance, a dim light suddenly blazed forth, twisting lazily in the summer breeze. Travelers? Travelers that weren't shady thieves? Without even considering the last time that he ran to people without questioning their motives, he took off towards it, not even slowing down as the figure containing it became more apparent.

There was a man, shorter than Hans but broader, huddled up against a dinky looking shack with a torch pressed against his chest, the flames licking the air and sending a billow of smoke into the breeze. Behind him was parked an old wooden sleigh hooked up to a single bull reindeer with a comically large face, resembling that of the trolls in that aspect. A small shop stood just a few meters in front of them, the windows framed with dim lanterns that illuminated the name "Oaken's Trading Post".

At the sound of Hans' footsteps the man glanced up, a confused expression flitting across his face. He set the torch in a sconce, and took a step forward. "Hey, are you ok-"

Hans slammed into him, sending them both flying through the doors of the rickety old trade.

In that moment, the lights seemed to have gone out again. Hans blinked rapidly, rubbing his sore head as he rolled onto his back. He was thankful for the mat that had happened to be lying on the ground, weakening his fall.

"Get off of me!"

He pushed himself up with his elbow and glanced at the man beneath him, who was struggling in vain to get up. Perhaps he wasn't made to be a mat, but he functioned as one well enough. It could even be a future career path- he was much better at it than the floor was, either way. He began to get up when a large, dark shadow fell over the two. The living cushion's face fell even further, and Hans turned around to face the giant hovering above them.

Some sort of Goliath stood there, sporting a vomit-green knit sweater with rainbow accents that only a mother could have loved. His rosy cheeks and mutton chops reminded Hans of his father, but all of the icy cold had been boiled to a more reasonable degree that may have resembled warmth- possibly just a bout of drunkenness, but warmth nonetheless.

"Yoo-hoo, anybody home?" he whistled in a voice and tone that did not suit his stature.

Hans hoisted himself up off his unintentional meat bag, who hissed in pain and swatted at his face. In the light of the small shop, Hans could make out his features- a Laplander, judging by the squared face and blonde hair, his pale skin spattered with dirt and grime. He was young, perhaps the same age as the prince himself if not just a few years younger. He held a gloved hand up to his nose, and Hans could see a drop of blood running down his lip. He sent a wild glare up at Hans, pushing himself up off the ground to his full height, which wasn't nearly as intimidating as the muscle factor.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he grunted, his voice stuffy from the blood in his nose.

Hans grimaced, sending a glance to the broken doorway. "Um, well. . ."

Goliath shook himself out of his shock, his already wide eyes becoming akin to dinner plates at the sight of the downed entrance. "You broke my door, you nut!"

Hans bit his lip. "I can explain!"

Before he had the chance, however, Bushy Brow burst through the empty archway, his namesake furrowed to points upon his wrinkled forehead as he heaved an angry breath. He had torn the axe out of his arm and was gripping it against his wound, blood streaming through his pudgy fingers and down the wooden handle. Behind him, Hans could hear the sound of his abandoned henchmen flooding the forest, their yells echoing in the night. Bushy Brow let out an inhuman snarl as he hoisted up the axe and lunged for Hans.

The prince dropped to the ground and rolled, avoiding the sharp blade that dug itself into the thin wall where Hans stood just seconds before. Wood chips fell like rain as Bushy Brow pulled the axe out and whipped around, rapidly swinging it downwards in hacking motions at Hans' legs while the man scrambled backwards. Hans pulled a leg back just as Bushy Brow slashed across the empty space where it had been and swung his other foot out, catching the enraged thief's ankle and sending him crashing to the ground where his chin smacked firmly against the floor. The axe flew out of his hand, skirting across the wood and sliding to a stop next to the downed door. The men made brief eye contact, blood flowing down Bushy Brow's chin where his teeth had gone through his thin, papery skin.

They both surged forward, Hans' broken fingernails grasping for hold as he scrambled to his feet, lunging for the weapon. Just as he did, Bushy Brow's elbow slammed into his mouth, knocking a tooth loose and sending him back onto the floor. The thief clambered across the ground, reaching out for the axe handle when Hans dove. His fingers latched around Bushy Brow's meaty ankle and he found himself being dragged along for the ride as he repeatedly punched the thief's calf, trying to slow him down. Bushy Brow kicked out, attempting to force the prince off him when Hans pulled his leg back, sinking his teeth into the frail Achilles tendon set out before him. Bushy Brow screeched, shaking his leg rapidly as Hans chewed, trying to ignore the gross taste of sweat, blood and body hair. Bushy Brow reached out and found a grasp on the axe handle and twisted back, jerking his leg forward and swinging the weapon at Hans' face. The prince screamed, releasing the ankle and rolling away just as the axe met Bushy Brow's leg.

The men paused. Bushy Brow looked almost offended at the axe- it had injured him twice now, after all. Hans stared, flabbergasted at the sight and busted out laughing. "This time it wasn't even my fault!" he said gleefully, admiring the display of stupidity like a carnival side show. Bushy Brow screeched, tugging out the axe with a spray of blood and leaped, sending the two tumbling across the ground where they slid to a stop. Bushy Brow held Hans down with a blood-soaked hand and raised the axe back with the other. "I don't usually bury a man", he hissed, "but I think I can make an exception!" He swung the blade down and Hans closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable end.

It never came.

He opened an eye and saw Goliath wrenching the thief's arm behind his back, his large fingers crushing the hand that held the axe. The giant's already red cheeks flooded with rage as he spun Bushy Brow around, snatching him up with a single fist clenched in the material of his beggars clothes. With a snarl, he stormed towards the opening and sent the leader flying through the doorway, his back slamming into the Laplander's sled with a resounding crack. The reindeer bellowed, raising onto its hind legs and kicking into the air with fear. Bushy Brow made to get up, but his shirt was caught on a loose nail in the wood of the sleigh. He paled as he realized what was happening and could only scream into the night as the reindeer fled, dragging both the sled and the thief with him. The Laplander, who had stood stock-still as the fight ensued, screeched and sprinted towards the opening, helpless as his steed took off into the night.

"No, no, no, Sven! Get back here-"

Goliath hoisted a shocked Hans up to his feet, gripping his shoulder with an iron fist. With his other hand, he grabbed the Laplander by the hood of his tunic and dragged both men to the glaring hole in the wall. The blonde continued panicking, flailing his arms in the air while he yelled at the retreating reindeer. Goliath smacked him across the cheek, silencing him effectively. The boy took several seconds to completely calm down, and Hans thought he saw a tear running down his face. Whiner.

"You two vill fix my door." Goliath said after a moment, tapping his foot against the floor.

"What?' The Laplander hissed, stomping a foot. "I didn't do anything! I was here to get supplies when this nutcase tackled me!"He pointed to the offending nutcase, who supposed that his accusations were fair enough. "Sven is gone! I need to find him!"

Goliath, however, didn't agree. He stood in front of the opening, preventing the men from leaving. "You vill fix my door and you vill not complain. Understand?"

If looks could kill, the iceman's glare would have punctured Han's lungs and bled him dry. As it was, however, his boyish features bore similarity to an angry Patrijshond puppy and Hans almost laughed.

Almost. He wasn't quite that stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine the fight scene between Hans and Bushy Brow at the end to be set to the tune of "Lollipop" by the Chordettes. Makes things more interesting.
> 
> Don't worry about the rest of the thieves or Sven, they'll be back soon enough.


End file.
